


Favouritism?

by corporates



Category: Historical RPF
Genre: M/M, Nazi Germany, Third Reich
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 08:02:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5156300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corporates/pseuds/corporates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More potentially offensive bullshit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Just don't even take this seriously.

His hands clasp around my neck and I feel my back against the wall, a sharp pain running up my spine. He leans in so close, but not as I want him to; I only wished we were friends but some months ago, what had I done?  
I can smell his breath. It isn't the sweet scent of hidden fantasies my little girls probably dream up, their affections so pure and innocent. It is the odour of a day's hard work, no time to rest when you lead.  
He spits. I can't tell what he is saying at this point; my head is spinning — I think I hit it — and my breath comes out in short, ragged gasps. Never have we been this close in proximity. All that is understandable is the hatred he feels of me. Oh, what have I done? Have I sacrificed my place in our army? Will I be doomed to an existence of work, just work, never ending unless we lose this war or my heart ceases to beat? My loyalty isn't doubted, not by myself, nor the rest of the Reich — I'd prefer the latter of options.  
Yet in a moment it's over. He releases me and steps back a few paces; I vaguely register his expression before I sink to the ground. It seems as shocked as I am. I'm crouched, but my undependable foot gives way and I collapse ungracefully lower. My breathing slows as does my heart, and there's silence, save for lone birds calling for nightfall.  
It doesn't last long, however. I gradually notice the heavy huffs of the man standing in front of me, but I daren't look up, afraid of what I will see in those big blue eyes, like stars. In a few heartbeats, I do, though. He's not standing. More so than me, yes — he always will be — but he is bent double. I can't see those big blue eyes. I retract my statement from before. Not knowing is worse than being certain on his disapproval.  
He soon relinquishes his stance and straightens up. To my dismay, I can't read him. I wonder what he is going to do to me, then flinch as his hand shoots out. I'm pleasantly surprised, however, when I realise he is only helping me up. Gratefully, I take his hand, and using my other and his help, I am soon straightened out as well — ironically.  
Anxiety returns, however, as I again ponder on his next move. Yet all he does is give my hand a strong squeeze, and then he is gone.


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I do it for the lols, please take no seriousness nor offence. If gay nazis makes you uncomfortable, why do you continue to read?

Is this it? I thought I was going to get away with no punishment. The Reichsführer at first seems interested at what our leader has to say to me in such a serious tone, but he snootily pushes his glasses up his angular nose and departs with the rest of the meeting. My stomach is in a whirl; are my days of propaganda over? Though the pressures occasionally get to me, it is a magnificent job surrounded by... well, decent people. People who share the same ideals, and that is enough — their presence is so rare nowadays.  
I am once again backed against a wall. Hung upon that wall is my own work. I think he might grab my neck again, but instead, he slowly brings out a hand to place it very neatly as a support right beside my head. His other is settled upon his hip, and the atmosphere is very different than the last time we were this close. I don't want to mistake my biased hope for his lust that I wish for, and I may be imagining it, but is he trying to be... seductive?  
My eyes meet his as I look up, and I don't think I can possibly mistake the aura of the situation. Like an infatuated schoolgirl, I have imagined all the fantasies I could, and always they seem more tender than this. I'm not falling into his arms, I'm scared. It's different to the time my wife — future wife then — first kissed me, because that wasn't illegal.  
And at that moment I feel the gravitas of the situation. He is going against the image he has created of himself. For me? No, that can't be. I know if he was caught breaking the law he could easily reassert himself, as he is the creator, but doesn't he realise it wouldn't be that simple for me? He could easily blame it all on me, refuse any rumours. The people kiss his feet. I am risking more than he--  
My thoughts are abruptly cut off as he presses a finger to my lips. "Don't speak, don't say a word," he purrs. I must look as terrified as I feel, as I see a flash of uncertainty cross his gaze, but he soon regains his half-smile and leans closer. So close that I can feel the minute hairs on the tip of his nose brush mine. I plainly advertise how afraid I am, but I do not so openly speak about the positive feelings I am experiencing. More than I ever have with my wife, which is wrong, so wrong, but I can't suppress them any longer.  
Apparently der Führer has the same thoughts as myself as he tentatively touches his lips to mine. He brings himself away from me a little, experimenting with my reaction, and as I don't push him away, even lean closer, he takes this as a plea to continue. His hand is still next to my head but now he slides it so it is touching my hair, starting to stroke its dark strands.  
And then it happens. It's so quiet yet suddenly I hear the blood rushing in my ears as he crashes his lips against my own and my eyes instinctively squeeze shut while I don't know what to do with my arms so I clumsily wrap them around his torso. The taste of his skin is not what my hopeless dreams expected; it is raw and salt and coffee and other indistinguishable tints of colour* and I love it. His lips are not smooth and soft; they are dry and chapped. His moustache is ragged and scruffy and it grazes against my skin. It is imperfectly perfect.  
We are closer than is allowed, but we are ever trying to increase the immorality. It sounds as if we're doing something even worse with the rate and volume of his breathing. His hands are like lightning as they flash to pressing against my chest, touching the outline of my collar bones. I run my own up and down his lower back and I feel that this is the right time to guide our affection further.  
Within the kiss, my tongue runs across his lips, and it is me in control as he obediently parts them and we deepen the crime. Truly tongue-tied we stay as that for more time than I care to count, and then he ends the display of affection suddenly without an explanation aside from a lowered head. I'm not entirely certain of what just happened or how it did, and I'm standing there breathing wildly with my eyes wide and body pressed against the wall.  
I expect a grand confession of his love for me, but all he says is, "You are dismissed" without looking up, his voice rather the opposite of what the majority of his image revolves around.

*Clearly I have never been kissed by der Führer so I have no fuckin clue what his lips would taste like lol forgive me


	3. Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if the way to say "wait" would be one word in German. Maybe just "halt".
> 
> Haaaa I wrote all this months ago wtf

"Herr Hitler?" Various high ranks of the Third Reich are dispersing from the room after the meeting, leaving only the Führer and I. He sits in the same chair he did when he first called me behind to "talk". What happened was not a discussion; there were barely any words exchanged. Only feelings. Yet this time, it is not he who wants to speak, it is I.  
"Ja, Paul?" He has his head in his hands and he refuses to look at me. He can likely already guess what I want his attention for. I tentatively walk — or, rather, limp — towards his seat. There's silence while I run my hand through my creamed-back hair.  
"Your propaganda work is truly inspiring." The surprise compliment takes me aback and I try to respond with gratitude but it only comes out as a moan. Suitably. Now he looks at me, and raises a brow. I open my mouth, but he beats me to it. "I know what you are going to bring up. If that is all, then you can leave."  
I don't give it a second's thought. I slam my hands on the table and lean over him. "So what was it to you, then?!" I snarl. "Another fling to cast off into the abyss of disloyalties?"  
"You have a wife, and I have a partner! You do not speak to your leader like that." He raises himself up out of his seat to now be the taller one, yet I don't back down.  
"They obviously mean nothing to you, and neither do I! You may be in control, but remember I can just as well as you give proof of that night and expose us both."  
"You're my Minister, Goebbels!" He yells, his hands now on the table close to mine, gripping the edges of it so his fingers turn white. His face is red with fury and mine probably too. "No more." Those words come out as a whisper, yet slice through my heart as fiercely as any scathing rage. I lose my aggressive stance and look up, saddened rather than maddened. Those big blue eyes are no longer like stars to me. They are as cold and close-minded as Heydrich's, as temporary as the colour of the daylit sky.  
"Alright." That is an answer. That is all I came for. His features seem to soften some when he realises what he has said, and his fingers return to their normal tinge as he drops his arms by his sides. No objection is made when I sigh mournfully and start heading towards the door. I can still hear his heavy breathing as I open it and step out.

A single word makes me halt and turn around: "Wait."


End file.
